


In The Midnight Hours (my angel calls to me)

by Pyracantha



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Depression, Drinking is not super great for coping, In between times, M/M, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Sleeping isn’t either, Sometimes we do both, Style in praise of racketghost, Wallowing happens, not a happy ending yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/pseuds/Pyracantha
Summary: 6000 years of rejection is hard. Wallowing is sometimes allowed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	In The Midnight Hours (my angel calls to me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is not happy or fun. Sometimes you are just depressed and sad and need a bit of a wallow in it. Hopefully it passes. This is not a happy ending though I like to think it’s a bit of not a happy ending YET.  
> Sorry upfront for the angst. ♥️

Like the point of a knife popping between the joints of a chicken as you butcher it. It twists itself into every crack he’s ever allowed to form in his tightly held facade and pulls, leaving clean lines that slowly well with blood. He can almost feel them physically, like his skin being flayed open, the raw meat of him laid bare. 

He’s not sure why he does this to himself.Running over old hurts, allowing the words to crush him like the very first time they were uttered. 

The ache in his chest makes it hard to breathe when he gets to this point. He wouldn’t admit it but he cries. Tears allowed to course down his face leaving faint salt rivers where they dry. 

He hardly remembers what had started this particular episode of recollection, just the sting of continuing rejection. 

He swallows, his throat dry. Wonders how long he’s been under this time. He feels achy as if he’s been bruised from the inside. Scraped raw and tender, an easier morsel to swallow. 

A fluttering movement catches his eye and he turns to see his pothos has grown over enough that it’s tendrils are making their way into the room. It’s a shock to think he’s been sunk in his own head long enough for it to become this overgrown. 

He carefully levers himself upright and takes in the room before him. All is as it should be. Though not dusty, there is nevertheless an air of disuse, of time passed. He cautiously stands and takes a few tottering steps towards the plant room. 

He can see before he enters the room that the plants have all enthusiastically out grown quite a few pots. Several have cracked and the roots spill out seeking more soil to drill through, finding purchase in other spills, winding their tendrils together with their neighbors. 

He turns his back to them, he needs to check the date. He thinks listlessly of his phone. It’s usually on his person somewhere. His pockets are empty and his mind doesn’t have the requisite coordination to search past them.  


He walks back to the couch snagging a full bottle of Bruichladdich on his way. It’s a smooth whisky, all sweet tones and heather, no peat to be found. After the fire he just couldn’t take the way the smokier whiskeys got stuck in his throat. A reminder of both of his worst days. 

He sprawls back after pouring himself a glass, cradling it to his chest. His stare is glassy and distant. He takes a long drink and sinks into the couch a bit, trying to wriggle in and find a bit of softness. He gives up after a minute realizing that the only yielding piece of furniture he has is his bed. He’s surprised it wasn’t where he found himself when he came to. He wants to be comforted he finds. Hands guiding him to bed, washing the salt from his face, stroking his hair, tucking him in under his heavy duvet. His head feels like it’s full of wool, dampening his impulses and keeping him from thinking. 

He finishes the bottle like this, wishing for soft things, hating that he wants them. He finally decides to give in to the one overriding urge and gets unsteadily to his feet. His feet carry him towards the bedroom, muscle memory keeping him from harm. He finds the strength to snap and he’s in pajama bottoms and a threadbare Queen t-shirt from the Game tour. It’s so old it’s almost see through. 

He slides beneath the covers with a sigh. All his brain functions offline save the ones demanding comfort. He closes his eyes, feels the weight of the bedding, hears the faint susurration of the Mayfair traffic, smells the whisky of his breath as he sighs. 

His eyes shut, closing against the hurt of no, not my friend, the keeping of all the distance between them, the weariness of not being wanted. He sighs as sleep descends, like a starlit angel, waving a wand to ease his suffering into dreams. Glimpses of golden hair and the smell of rain, white wings and a hand reaching for him, waiting for him to grasp it with love and surety. Always just too far away to hold but he steps on his heart and reaches anyway, hope seeping in that eventually he’ll be close enough to touch. 


End file.
